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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27647773">But Like All Dreams</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewightknight/pseuds/thewightknight'>thewightknight</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>BeWitching Tales [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Cinderella Fusion, Fairy Tale Retellings, Gen, with a touch of little mermaid</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:06:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,327</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27647773</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewightknight/pseuds/thewightknight</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaskier's father weds suddenly and dies soon after, leaving Jaskier to the not-so-tender mercies of his new stepmother and her two sons.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia &amp; Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>BeWitching Tales [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1740502</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>But Like All Dreams</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I started this piece in June and it's been taunting me ever since. This may be the last of the Witcher fairytale series, but I'll leave it open for now.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier let his bags slide from his shoulders as soon as he came through the door, frowning when Relbold wasn’t there to greet him. Their butler was scrupulous in performing his duties and never strayed far from the foyer. A laugh from the parlor answered the question he hadn’t formed yet. Father had guests, he thought. Customers, and wealthy ones too, if he was entertaining them in their home.</p><p>Not wanting to disturb them, but also wanting to see his father, as he’d missed him terribly this term, he tiptoed down the hall, peeking into the parlor. The sight of the woman there convinced him he should have bathed and changed first before intruding. She was gorgeous, maybe a few years younger than his father, but had taken obvious care with herself, and dressed impeccably and in the latest fashion. Her hair was woven into an intricate coiffure and she’d applied makeup, but in a way that made it seem she was wearing none.</p><p>Father had brought out the fine china for her, and she held her teacup with one pinky raised, at the correct angle for a court visit, and not for the home of a mere fabric merchant. Although they were more than mere merchants—Jaskier’s father had done well and they themselves dressed as if royalty, albeit minor ones, and their house was full of luxuries that many would envy.</p><p>Both the butler and footman waited on them, topping off teacups and proffering trays of tasty bites, and Jaskier tried to sneak away again. But his father noticed him and called him in.</p><p>“Jaskier! Come meet Madame Allione!”</p><p>“I won’t inflict my road dust on you and your guest, father. I just wanted to say hello!”</p><p>“Nonsense,” his father protested. “Come. Sit!”</p><p>Madame Allione said nothing, but he could feel her disapproval, even though it didn’t show on her face.</p><p>“Really, father. I desperately need a bath. I’ve been riding since dawn and I reek of horse.”</p><p>With a delicate sniff of her nose, Madame Allione pulled a kerchief from her sleeve and raised it to her face.</p><p>“If you insist,” his father said, and Jaskier beat a hasty retreat. He’d taken an instant dislike to this Madame Allione, he realized, as a servant drew him a bath. He lingered in the tub, hoping by the time he emerged she’d have concluded her business with his father, and he succeeded. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to see her again.</p><p>Break passed too quickly and before he knew it, he was mounting his horse again, returning to Oxenfurt for spring term. Once there, he threw himself into his studies. This was his third year, with one to go. His instructors had great hopes for him. Court bard was his goal, and his instructors thought such a lofty goal was within his reach. But while he appreciated the thought of the acclaim he’d receive from such a position, it would mean being away from home. He’d begun missing his father when he’d barely been a few miles on the road.</p><p>Only a few weeks into spring term, he received a letter from his father. It was unusual enough to worry Jaskier. Dreading bad news, he broke the seal, and as he read, it confirmed his fears.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>My dearest Jaskier,</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>It is with great joy I write to inform you that Madame Allione and I have wed. I never thought to find a place for someone else in my heart after the death of your mother, but she has captivated me. I know it will upset you, that we did not wait until you returned this summer to have the ceremony, but I found myself unable to delay. She is the most delightful creature, lovely in every way, and I found I could delay. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I look forward to you making her further acquaintance. In a few brief hours, I am sure you will love her as much as I do.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>With warmest regards, </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Your father</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Barely three weeks more had passed before he received a second letter. Not knowing what to expect—maybe that he now had a younger sibling on the way—he broke the seal. When he saw it was in his father’s solicitor’s handwriting, he frowned. Upon reading, he sat down heavily, all the blood draining from his face.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Young Mr. Pankratz,</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>I regret to inform you your father has taken ill. The doctors are lost as to the cause, but he worsens by the hour, and they believe his days are numbered. I urge you to return with all due haste.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Sincerely,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Albertus D. Johonne, Esq.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Upon showing the letter to the dean, the man granted him immediate leave, and Jaskier rode through the gates of town a scant hour later. But even though he pushed both his horse and himself to exhaustion, he didn’t reach home in time.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Julian,” his new stepmother told him. “But with the unusual heat this spring, we couldn’t delay the service any longer.”</p><p>She wore a black gown, impeccably tailored, of rich velvet and silk, with a veil of fabric so fine her features clearly showed beneath. Such signs of deep mourning when she’d known his father only a few months set Jaskier’s teeth on edge.</p><p>He’d missed his father’s funeral by two days. They’d buried him in the town chapel’s small cemetery. The priest assured him that their solicitor had ordered a headstone and they would install it within a few weeks. For now, a simple wooden plaque marked his father’s grave. <em>Beloved husband and father,</em> it proclaimed. The words felt hollow.</p><p>Another surprise awaited him upon his return home. His father had forgotten to mention that his new wife had two sons from a previous marriage.</p><p>The elder, Orren, was older than him by four years. He lorded around the household, and eschewed mourning colors, dressing instead in clashing colors that made Jaskier’s eyes tear up. Perhaps he did so to distract from his ears (elephantine) and nose (raptor-like) and eyes (beady and protruding). If so, his plan failed miserably.</p><p>Her younger, Valdo, had only a few months on Jaskier. Unlike his brother, he was decent looking, if rather weedy of limb and round of middle. He ruined whatever fortune those looks might have brought him with his simpering manner.</p><p>Like their mother, Jaskier detested both immediately, and the feeling seemed to be mutual.</p><p>Jaskier’s next shock was to discover that before he died, his father had changed his will. He’d left everything to his new wife, with the stipulation that Jaskier ‘be taken care of’ by his new mother. And that his new mother didn’t think ‘being taken care of’ included continuing his education.</p><p>“Music as a profession? Please! I’ll have no common bard, pandering to the tastes of the masses in low taverns, come from my household,” Allione told him when he broached the subject or returning to Oxenhurt. “Going to university for such things was a waste of your father’s money, and he had little to spare, despite appearances.”</p><p>That came as a shock to Jaskier. As far as he knew, the family had money above and beyond the profits from his father’s business. “No, you’ll stay home and help with the household, like a dutiful son,” she told him, oblivious to his bewilderment, or, most likely, choosing to ignore it. When he tried to protest, she raised a hand. “I’ll hear nothing of it from you. Now drink your tea.”</p><p>During that horrible afternoon tea, Jaskier also found out that Allione had already dismissed most of the household staff, and that she expected him to help clean up afterwards. Although he was no stranger to the kitchen or the cook, whenever he’d visited the kitchen previously it had been bustling with people.</p><p>“Just let them go without notice. Gave them a reference and a scant week’s pay,” cook confided in him. “And so many of them have been with the family for years! Such a thing.” She tsk’d into the pot she stirred. With some questioning, he discovered who remained of the staff. There was Delphinia, the upstairs maid, a young, timid girl who smiled shyly at Jaskier whenever their paths crossed. Horton, the stable hand, who was half deaf and simple to boot. And Relbold, because a butler was a necessity—any personage of importance couldn’t answer their own door. They must maintain appearances.</p><p>That was the phrase he heard time and time again over the next weeks, and he grew to hate it more every time Allione muttered.</p><p>“We must maintain appearances!” she said when she ordered new gowns for herself and new tunics for her son. “We must maintain appearances!” she said when she brought in music and dance tutors for Orren and Valdo. Jaskier didn’t need lessons, she said when he asked, because he’d already gotten his own musical education, and at a much dearer price. No, instead he must help cook with the meals and Delphinia with the housekeeping, because, of course, “We must maintain appearances!”</p><p>Weeks passed, and then months. It took Jaskier longer than it should have to notice when things went missing. His new stepbrothers had bullied him out of his rooms and into the small cubby next to the attic, but that wasn’t an acceptable excuse. Small, valuable keepsakes disappeared from mantles and shelves. Madame Allione wore less and less of his mother’s jewelry. Hers and her sons’ garments grew more and more extravagant, as did the food on their tables, but none of that food made its way back to the servants and Jaskier. Or if it did, they’d ruined it with too much salt. They made do with the simple fare cook whipped up in her little spare time, or what they could scrounge from the woods that backed up against the estate.</p><p>It was when Jaskier discovered Allione’s love of mushrooms he found a relief from the constant rounds of chores she’d piled on him, little by little. When he’d first noticed things beginning to disappear around the house, he’d hidden his lute and few keepsakes in an outbuilding, in an old trunk, padded against the cold by threadbare blankets. He hadn’t dared play it around the house or Valdo would have demanded it and Allione would have taken it from him. His mother had gift the lute to him when he’d been accepted to Oxenfurt—a fine instrument, engraved on the neck and inlaid with exotic woods and mother-of-pearl on the board.</p><p>The excuse of hunting for mushrooms bought him scant a scant few hours each week, and he treasured every second. Gathering the mushrooms took little time once he found the places where they most grew, and he took full advantage of the respite. He sometimes sang old ballads, the traditional songs he’d learned at university, but interspersed them with his own compositions. Some of them he’d written in his small room in Oxenfurt and others he composed there in the forest. One was a lament for his father and mother. Another burst out of him, a diatribe against the interlopers that had invaded his home.</p><p>One day as he played, he looked up from his lute in the middle of a stanza and screamed in shock because standing above him was a man, with white hair and yellow eyes, sitting astride a giant black horse. The man said nothing, and no expression crossed his face at Jaskier’s startled exclamation. Instead, he kicked his horse into motion and turned, leaving Jaskier staring at his back as the horse trotted away.</p><p>Once his heart slowed and his brain stopped screeching in panic, Jaskier realized he’d recognized the man—Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher who sometimes visited Queen Calanthe’s court. Jaskier used to keep track of his comings and goings, because a Witcher’s exploits and adventures were prime ballad fodder, but he had no time for such gossip nowadays, and no one to share it with.</p><p>He only saw Geralt once more, a dark figure in the distance recognizable only by his shock of white hair, but after that first time he had the feeling that someone watched him whenever he played. There was nothing a bard liked more than an appreciative audience, so he put his all into it.</p><p>More months passed, the days a blur of exhaustion and misery, and then one day when cook sent him to the market, he found a posting in the town square, an official proclamation from the queen.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Her Royal Highness Calanthe seeks a bard for court. As such, she will hold a competition for prospective candidates. Any may enter, and the competition will take place as part of a masked ball, so contestants’ anonymity is ensured to prevent any favoritism. The musician who wins the crowd’s favor will win the position.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>When he returned home, he discovered his stepmother and her sons already knew. Royal couriers had personally delivered an invitation, a tribute to his father’s status and one his stepmother gloated over even as she flew into action.</p><p>“This is your chance, my boys!” she said. “One of you will win this competition and bring further honor and fame to our family!”</p><p>Jaskier almost asked why it was an honor for one of her sons to be a bard, but not for him, but swallowed the words before he could utter it. His sharp tongue had earned her displeasure too many times already.</p><p>The announcement of the competition led to uninterrupted practicing in the weeks to follow, much to Jaskier’s dismay. He took to stuffing wads of cotton in his ears, which muted the caterwauling almost to where he could bear it, and tried to drown out what they didn’t block with dreams of his own success at the competition.</p><p>Although he said nothing, his stepmother took to watching him with knowing eyes. She didn’t forbid him from going. No, she didn’t need to. Instead, she saddled him with more and more chores on top of his already heavy load.</p><p>“You’re going,” cook whispered to him one night as they scrubbed dishes together.</p><p>“But…” Jaskier tried to protest.</p><p>“No buts. My sisters will help with the chores. That witch won’t have a thing to complain of.”</p><p>“But I have nothing to wear,” Jaskier said. Among the other missing household items, Jaskier’s wardrobe had also diminished gradually, until all he had left were two threadbare coats, seasons out of fashion, patched in places with cook’s help. Allione had probably sold off them to a second-hand clothing merchant in one of the less reputable parts of town. That too played into her plans to keep him from the ball, leaving him only rags to wear.</p><p>“Pish,” cook scoffed. “You’ve never looked in the attic, have you?”</p><p>They crept up their late that evening, long after cook normally left, tiptoeing up the narrow stairs with lanterns in hand.</p><p>“Look at all this!” he exclaimed at the sight of the neat stacks of trunks.</p><p>“Your father had samples made up to showcase his wares. Some he sold after, but he stored the ones that didn’t here.”</p><p>They found each piece individually swathed in cotton and each trunk packed with mothballs or cedar chips, keeping the pests at bay. Among the multitudes of dresses, which they discarded, he found the perfect pieces: tunic and trews in a brilliant blue satin, embroidered with gold thread and studded with pearls, and a hat to match, which would cover his hair.</p><p>“You’ll need a mask,” cook said as they wrapped up his treasures. “With your permission, I’ll take one of these for trade. They’re all yours, anyway, and not that horrible woman’s. I don’t care what any piece of paper says.”</p><p>Two nights later, she showed him her purchase—a mask of gold leather that hid all of his face, so neither Allione nor her sons could recognize him.</p><p>She and Relbold helped him dress the night of the ball, after they’d seen the terrible three off in their rented carriage.</p><p>“Aren’t you a sight, sir?” cook said, sniffling and wiping at her eyes.</p><p>“A fine sight, sir,” Relbold agreed, adjusting the lay of the tunic across his shoulders, then stepping back.</p><p>“Off with you now,” cook said, giving him a gentle shove towards the door. He’d have to walk, but the castle wasn’t that far, and he wouldn’t be alone on the streets. The queen had thrown open her court for the competition, and most of the town would be there.</p><p>As he left, he heard cook say, “Next time we see him, he’ll be at the queen’s side. Mark my words.”</p><p>When he presented himself at the gates and announced himself as a competitor, a page handed him a small wooden plaque with a number inscribed. Because of the lateness of his arrival, he discovered he’d be the last to perform. That meant he spent hours lurking at the edges of the crowd, trying not to draw anyone’s attention, but especially avoiding his stepmother’s sharp eyes.</p><p>To his delight, the crowd booed Orren off the stage. When it was Valdo’s turn, he restrained himself from denouncing his stepbrother, because the song Valdo sang was one he had composed. Valdo did a decent job with it, an added insult. Even with his stolen song, though, the crowd had cheered louder for others.</p><p>And then the queen’s herald called out the final number, Jaskier’s own, and he took his place before the thrones of the royal couple. He knew, even halfway through the song, that he’d won. The queen’s eyes sparkled and King Eist’s feet tapped, and at his closing flourish the roar of the crowd echoed through the hall. He fumbled his fingerings once, when he saw the Witcher in the audience, his white hair and yellow eyes putting him head and shoulders above the crowd. But then he rallied, and resumed his singing, playing for the Witcher as he did all those times in the forest before.</p><p>He finished with a flourish, and an extravagant bow first to the queen and king, and then to each side of the hall, and when he straightened, his heart lurched in his chest. For his stepmother stood at the front and fixed him with her stare, eyes burning with anger and hatred.</p><p>The roar of the crowd continued until King Eist’s consort stood, hand raised. When the crowd quieted, the queen also stood.</p><p>“I think there is no doubt in anyone’s mind….” she began, but before she could finish the doors to the hall blew open and a gale of wind blew through the hall, extinguishing all light. In the confusion that followed, Jaskier felt someone grab his arm, and a breath of something foul hit his face, and he knew no more.</p><p>He woke in his little loft room. His lute sat in pieces at the foot of his bed, and Madame Allione stood over him, Orren and Valdo flanking her, all three of them viewing him with varying degrees of enmity.</p><p>“The queen hunts for her mystery bard,” Allione said. “She’s sent out notices—the position is his, and there’s a reward for any who can help find him. Valdo will take your place. He’s of a size, so no one will notice the difference.” He wasn’t, really, especially around the middle, Jaskier wanted to protest, but she grasped him by the neck, and he found he couldn’t struggle against her. “He’ll have your voice, and his rightful place, which you attempted to steal from him.”</p><p>Those fingers tightened around his throat, and she intoned a chant in a language Jaskier had never heard. He’d have wondered about it if he hadn’t had more pressing concerns. Because as she continued her chant a rhythmic pulsing began in his gut, moving up through his chest, a fluttering and pulsing, rhythmic contractions as if she forced something up out from within him. His breath, which he’d been unable to release, suddenly gusted out of him as a stream of glittering motes poured from his mouth Allione caught them in her free hand, releasing him, and he fell back onto his bed, gasping for air.</p><p>Ignoring him, Allione turned to Valdo, taking him by the neck. The process reversed itself, the stream of light pouring from her hand into her son’s mouth, his throat working against her fingers as he swallowed it down.</p><p>“And now, my son, you will claim your prize,” Allione said.</p><p>“Of course I will, mother,” Valdo said, but not in his own voice.</p><p>As Valdo spoke, Jaskier found he could move again. But when he tried to speak, no sound came from his mouth.</p><p>“They will go door to door, the king and his wizard and their hangers-on, looking for the bard who mysteriously disappeared. When they come here, I will spin them a tale of a shy son who fled at the disturbance. King Eist will demand proof and Valdo will give it to him in song. And while they are here you will stay in your room, because even without a voice I’m sure you would still find a way to cause some mischief.”</p><p>Jaskier put all the scorn and disdain into the look he gave her. Only a delusional woman could think her simpering son had won the crowd’s acclaim. She ignored him, turning with a swish of silk and velvet as she led her sons from the room.</p><p>With a wave of her hand, the door slammed shut, even though she hadn’t touched the latch. When Jaskier tried the door, he found it sealed, resisting all of his attempts to open. Likewise, his window remained shut, and the glass impervious to breakage. So he watched in despair as King Eist made his way down their street, with his retinue and guards trailing him and the wizard Ermion at his side.</p><p>At every house, the household came out, family and servants all, and one by one, the king demanded they sing. Once he reached the end of the line, Eist shook his head, the family returned to their home and the king’s party progressed to the next house.</p><p>When they reached Jaskier’s father’s house, Madame Allione sallied forth, Orren on one side and Valdo on the other. Cook and Relbold trailed them, uncharacteristically subdued. At Allione’s urging, Orren stepped forth first, and at any other time Jaskier would have laughed at the winces that traveled through the king’s party as his mouth worked. And then Valdo took his turn.</p><p>Even though he couldn’t hear Valdo, Jaskier could tell Allione’s magic had done its work. The king’s head snapped up, fixing Valdo with a disbelieving stare. Valdo didn’t even make it through one verse of whichever song he’d picked. The king raised a hand and Ermion nodded, then clapped his hands. At this, a guard beckoned and the royal carriage pulled up in front of the house.</p><p>Jaskier despaired as Allione kissed Valdo on both cheeks and hugged him, an affectionate gesture she’d never performed for either of her sons. First the king, then his wizard Ermion, mounted the three stairs that led up to the carriage, but as Valdo’s foot hovered above the first stair, Geralt the Witcher appeared from between the houses across the street.</p><p>Jaskier couldn’t hear what Geralt said, but whatever it was, it caused a furor in those below. Allione shook her head so hard her hat tilted, and Valdo threw up his hands, gesturing to himself. King Eist and Ermion looked back and forth between the Witcher and Allione and Valdo, while Orren stepped back, putting distance between himself and all the waving arms.</p><p>Whatever Allione had done to Jaskier’s windows also prevented sound from escaping, because no matter how Jaskier pounded on the enspelled glass, no one beneath heard him. If it wasn’t for Orren, glancing up guiltily towards the attic dormer, no one would have known of his presence. But Geralt followed Orren’s gaze. When those yellow eyes met his, Jaskier grasped at his throat, a pantomime of choking, and pointed to Valdo.</p><p>Geralt said something else, and pointed, and all eyes turned upwards, to where Jaskier stood framed behind glass.</p><p>An argument ensued, until, with Allione protesting, Geralt and Ermion mounted the steps leading up to the entrance. The king’s guards barred her way when she attempted to follow.</p><p>It was useless to pound on the door if it was as soundproof as the window, but it made Jaskier feel better. He only stopped when he felt the door vibrate under his hands. As the vibrations intensified, he stepped back, throwing his arms up in front of his face in alarm when it collapsed into a pile of splinters.</p><p>“There’s your bard,” a voice said, and although Jaskier had never heard the Witcher’s voice, he somehow knew it was Geralt who spoke. As the dust settled, Geralt continued. “I heard him sing in the forest. I don’t know what sorcery stole his voice, but it doesn’t belong to that boy below.”</p><p>“Hm,” Ermion said, frowning at Jaskier and stroking his beard. “Yes, there is magic that hangs over him. What spell it is, I cannot say. Perhaps Madame Allione can enlighten us.”</p><p>When they emerged from the house, Valdo’s pallor, already pasty, neared corpse-like.</p><p>“It seems you have not been honest with us, madame,” Ermion said.</p><p>Jaskier expected some protest, a convoluted explanation filled with high dramatics. Instead, his stepmother drew herself up to her full height, which suddenly seemed taller than Jaskier remembered. Her mouth stretched impossibly long and a series of guttural syllables issued forth from a mouth full of too many pointed teeth. A strange ringing sounded in Jaskier’s ears, in time with a pounding in his head, as he lost track of what they’d been doing. Everything was fine, he thought. Why was he out here? What were they all doing standing outside like this? Valdo had won the competition, and the king had arrived to escort him to court. Hadn’t he?</p><p>The king gestured, and Valdo took a step forward, glancing back at his mother with eyes wide. Orren stood frozen in place, jealous, Jaskier was sure, although he looked ready to faint, or vomit, or both.</p><p>At a gesture from the king, a guard opened the carriage door and the king beckoned to Valdo.</p><p>“Come, master bard,” he said. “The queen awaits.”</p><p>“No,” Geralt said, stepping forward. Raising one hand, he gestured, and a wave of force rushed forth, knocking Allione backwards and breaking whatever spell she’d cast. Shrieking in rage, she freed herself from the bushes in which she’d landed, only to be hit by another wave that blasted her through one of the marble statues that dotted the lawn.</p><p>Ermion, still shaking his head to dissipate the remnants of Allione’s spell, rushed to Geralt’s side, adding his skills to the Witcher’s. Whatever he cast at Allione as she bolted up from where she’d landed, eyes blazing with fury but otherwise seemingly unaffected, whirled around her, and at first it seemed the mage’s spell sliced pieces of flesh from her bones. No blood followed, and Allione made no indication that the spell caused her any distress. It wasn’t until she raised a hand and saw pale skin giving way to something beneath that she reacted.</p><p>“Noooo!” she cried, her voice spiraling up into inhuman shrieks as the illusion of a beautiful woman fell away, revealing her true form. Her features were still recognizable as the woman she’d presented herself as, but her formerly alabaster skin was now a muddy green in tone, and it stretched over elongated bones that bent at odd angles. Her gown split, unable to contain her true form, and her hair came loose from its pins, falling around her in tangled waves.</p><p>Now shed of the form she’d cloaked herself in, the creature that had called herself Allione hissed at the witcher and the sorcerer who confronted her before drawing herself up to her now considerable height, head and shoulders above them all.</p><p>Valdo shrieked, falling backwards and scrambling backwards on all fours, and Jaskier made a mental note never to utter such a sound when he did regain his voice, because frankly, no respectable person should ever make a noise like that. Orren did finally faint, dropping like a stone. Everyone else scattered like sensible beings, but you couldn’t have torn Jaskier away from the scene. It was battles like these of which ballads were made.</p><p>The creature continued to chant in her guttural language, hands spinning before her. Between her spindly fingers a ball of darkness grew, with tendrils beginning to ooze towards them. Ermion countered with a bold of brilliant light, temporarily blinding Jaskier. As he blinked, trying to clear his vision, she let out a screech that tore through Jaskier’s head, a hundred-fold worse than any of Orren’s attempts at song. He heard a scuffle, and a grunt, and when he rubbed away the tears at last, it was to the sight of his inhuman step-mother pinned to the door of his mother’s house with Geralt’s sword through her breast.</p><p>She struggled even as Geralt drove the sword further through her, her now claw-like nails gouging great gashes into his arms and back as she attempted to dislodge him. With a great heave, Geralt buried his sword to the hilt, and at last she stilled, strands of tangled hair falling forward across her inhuman features as she collapsed around the blade.</p><p>“Look!” one of the guards cried, and Jaskier tore his eyes away from the sight to where the guard pointed. Valdo let out another cry as he began to glow, grasping his throat as if he could stop the flow of light that issued forth.</p><p>“Noooo!” he cried, and his voice changed as the last of the light escaped him. He made a desperate grab, wailing in despair as his fingers passed through the streams of light that converged on Jaskier.</p><p>Without Allione’s magic holding him in place Jaskier staggered backwards as the magic poured back into him. He would have fallen, but for the witcher, who had appeared at his side.</p><p>Once the light had faded, he coughed, then cleared his throat, and found he could speak again.</p><p>“I never want to do that again,” were the first words he said to the king. Those words would not make it into the official ballad, he promised himself.</p><p>Neither Ermion nor Geralt knew what manner of monster Allione had been. Guards took Orren and Valdo into custody, but Ermion later declared that they both were as they seemed. Whether Allione had taken human children as her own, or had indeed borne them and had bred true to their fathers, remained a mystery. Jaskier had to believe it, if only because no one would have chosen to cast a glamour to look like Orren.</p><p>Penniless and without any skills of which to speak, the queen took the stepbrothers into her household. They worked as palace servants, and from time to time Jaskier ppsed one of them as they scrubbed a hall or scurried by with arms full of linens, and he’d feel a moment of pity before remembering their casual cruelty towards him. They had better lives now, he’d remind himself, than he’d had under their mother’s thumb, with regular meals and two new sets of clothes every year, and others to share the load.</p><p>For his first weeks as court bard, he performed favorites on request, interspersed with pieces he’d previously composed, while waiting for the right time to introduce his newest work.</p><p>That right time finally came when a certain Witcher made one of his rare appearances in court. Jaskier first bowed to Calanthe and Eist before turning to Geralt.</p><p>“And now let me sing of the evil creature who bespelled a good man, of that man’s son, and of the witcher who was her downfall.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>No, I could not bring myself to use the name Mousesack.</p><p> </p><p>Thanks for reading! If you want to say hi, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewightknight/profile">check out my profile</a> for where I’m currently hanging out on this here internet thing. If you liked this, please share! Kudos are love and comments are always appreciated, no matter how old the fic is.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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